


Playing Dirty

by mother_finch



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: F/F, F/M, Gen, mother-finch fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-09
Updated: 2015-10-09
Packaged: 2018-04-25 15:30:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4966375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mother_finch/pseuds/mother_finch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>PROMPT: shaw + root = like the situation with Thomas, it's root's turn to go on a date with a hot and flirtatious criminal as their new number. shaw has to listen throughout the whole thing with the back and forth flirting over the comms from the subway station.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Playing Dirty

Harold sits at his desk chair, fingers tapping against the tabletop’s cool wood, and waiting with draining patients. Maybe it’s the lack of sound all around him, or perhaps the burning curiosity laced in his less than concrete plan, but time has never drug its heels deeper in the sand. It’s only been twenty minutes; however, Harold could swear that his hair has grayed and his age has sky rocketed to somewhere in the triple digits.

He pulls up an internet page, types in a random string of letters, then exits out of the screen. He does it again. And again. He searches for maps, looks up sewer plans, and even cracks a few blocked feeds. He leaves those screens as well; taps on the desk a little while more. He checks his wrist watch- not even a minute has gone by.

“ _You_  seem anxious.”

Harold jumps at the cold voice that blares in his right ear. Wheeling around in his chair, he finds himself face to face with Sameen Shaw, who leers in close, hint of a sinister smirk hovering at the corner of her mouth. There is a large weapon slung over her shoulder, and she sports heels with chains hanging from the sides, yet she hadn’t made a single sound entering the station. Harold can still feel his heart sputtering in his chest, and knows his eyes are a smidgen too wide. Blinking a few times, he forces a makeshift calm over himself, and waits once again. Fingers tapping, patience dwindling, annoyance mounting.

Two minutes have passed.

* * *

 

Letting out a sigh that hisses like the leak of a gas pipe, Harold turns back to Shaw. Her fingers dance along the barrel of the gun nearly half her height, clicking this and tweaking that. Harold swallows, still not the biggest fan of weapons- let alone ones of such massive proportions.

“We have a new number,” he blurts, partially needing to distract himself from the firearm, but mostly needing to relieve his impatience. “His name is Charles MacArthur, and he has a criminal record longer than even our old acquaintance, Tomas.”

“Sounds fun,” Shaw responds, eyes sparking with the light of a single match as she leans her hands against the desk, eyes on the screen. Harold quickly keys in their number’s information, pleased with finally having something to do.

His picture pops into view first, eyes deep enough to sink frigates and jaw line sharp enough to slice diamonds in two. There is a crooked smirk on his slightly stubbled face, body language relaxed as he knows he can never be caught. Shaw looks him over with thought. As the files of his alleged-but-not-confirmed crimes litter the screen, Shaw scans them all, gears turning faster and faster with each felony.

“He’s pretty bad,” Shaw says, something like impressed arousal in her voice. “It’ll take some  _real_  skill to stay on  _him_.”

Harold pauses, mind in limbo between evaluating the statement and running in the opposite direction. Then, he turns to her, disapproval in his scrunched eyes and a not-so subtle amount of disgust playing in his frown. Shaw’s gaze flickers from the screen to him and back, then does a double take. Seeing his expression, the match gets doused with a gallon of water.

“In case someone tries to  _kill_  him, Harold,” Shaw clarifies, annoyance and anger battling in her tone. Harold, still unable to shake the face, merely looks back to his computer, pulling up material that he hopes will be less appealing to her.

“Mr. MacArthur has been planning a large heist with his associates for tonight. He needs a new wheelman and fellow robber for the night, considering his original choice conveniently received a plane ticket to Italy leaving in two hours.”

“I hear Venice is lovely this time of year,” Shaw murmurs, and Harold nods. “Okay,” she says at last, a set finality in her voice, “I’m in. When’s the heist?”

“Actually…” Harold starts slowly, throat constricting with caution. Already, Shaw’s eyes start to demand an answer, and he isn’t sure how to break the news lightly. “I have someone  _else_  on it now. Well, they’re running a little late, but-”

“Who,” Shaw barely asks, voice stern and eyes drilling. Harold presses his lips together, knowing she isn’t going to like this at all. He types quickly on his computer, and four photos of various woman surface on the screen. All have a similarity to them: the tall, slender form and shoulder length blonde hair.

“In doing research, I found that our number’s ideal partner looks like this,” Harold tells her, trying to explain. “All of his old relationships have been with taller, blonde women.” Shaw crosses her arms, tilting her head to the side.

“ _So_?” Her eyes burn him, daring him to say it. Harold licks his bottom lip.

“You’re not, uh… you’re a little on the short side, Miss. Shaw.” Shaw’s eyes grow large with livid fire as she drops her arms to her sides, hands clenching into solid fists. He can see the vein in her neck begin to bulge as her jaw tightens, teeth grinding down to the gums with anger.

“Sorry, Sam,” Root says, appearing from the shadows as she places a hand on each of Shaw’s shoulders from behind, leaning in to speak almost in Shaw’s ear. “But you’re just gonna have to sit this one out.” Shaw rolls her tongue over her teeth, taut muscles torn between relaxing and snapping into fibrous smithereens.  _Has the realization that Root is the one going come to her yet?_

“You’re late, Miss. Groves,” Harold informs her in a brisk, flat manner, looking her over.

“Had to find the right wig,” Root replies with a simple shrug of the shoulders, releasing Shaw and leaning her back against the desk on the left side of Harold. He feels as if he’s watching an intense tennis match, his body swiveling back and forth in the chair, left to right, trying to take in as much of the two women as possible.

Root. The classic little black dress with a single strap looping around her neck. Bare legs down to boots that could crush the world under her sharp heels. She lifts a hand, nails freshly coated in black polish, to her dark cherry lips, blotting at the lipstick a moment, then pushing her dirty blonde hair back over her shoulder, just to have it fall back into place.

Shaw. Arms still at her sides, feet planted firmly to the ground, like a statue since Root’s touch. Her eyes travel slowly over Root, as if missing a single detail would be a sin, and then look her over again. Her jaw works up and down, left to right, thought consuming her every action. She tilts her head to the side the smallest bit, eyes stopping straight ahead. Where Harold would usually find them narrowing in a seething glare, they remain utterly normal- curious even.

Root. Her eyes are shimmering with an overwhelming amount of self-satisfaction, lips battling down a smile in vain, and she angles herself to look Shaw directly in the eyes.

Shaw just stands there, watching.

Harold clears his throat, pushing back from his desk and standing between them. At once, whatever trance held Shaw breaks, and her eyes roll with annoyance. Turning to Root, Harold hands her a laptop case, all the while searching her eyes, trying to find something to say to her.

“You should get going,” he tells her at last, bringing a hand out towards the exit, waiting for her to leave. Giving him the last of a sly smile, Root begins her short journey to the meet, being sure to connect eyes with Shaw one last time before escaping without a trace.

__________\ If Your Number’s Up /__________

“If you have nothing for me to do,  _why_  am I still here?” Shaw all but bursts, sharp tone slicing right into Harold’s thoughts. He turns to face her, taking off the headset and placing it on his desk.

“You’re free to go,” he tells her, something like haughty humor lingering in the background of his tone, knowing Shaw wouldn’t leave. Not when there’s even the smallest possibility that she might be able to work a number.

Shaw rolls her jaw stiffly nonetheless, then stands from her seat beside Bear, walking over with silent steps to the desk. Root had been out for only fifteen minutes, but Shaw is already curious to what’s taking place. Leaning over Harold, Shaw’s eyes scan the computer screen for a video feed, but finds none.

“Why can’t we see anything?” She asks, a prickle of annoyance ruffling her feathers.

“The surveillance cameras all conveniently went offline two hours ago. The only things we have for communication are Root’s earwig, and the computer- if she ever turns it on,” Harold informs her, pointing down to the headset. “You can listen if you’d like- although I can’t say that what they’re talking about is  _enjoyable_ \- while I take Bear for a walk.”

A humored puff of air escapes Shaw’s lips as an incredulous smile peeks out. “I’d rather remove a bullet from my chest with a  _spoon_.” Harold raises his eyebrows at her but says no more, merely grabs Bear’s collar and heads towards the subway terminal’s exit.

“ _Komen_ ,” he calls out, and Bear jumps from his bed, nails scraping against floor tiles as he scampers Harold’s way. After a minute of tail wagging and slight chasing, Harold is heading to the streets with Bear loyally at his flank. Shaw stands just out of arm’s length of the headset, listening to Harold’s fading footsteps until they are ghosts of ghosts.

And then, she waits some more.

Her gaze rests on the headset, and she swears she can hear it calling to her.  _Just listen for a second. A minute._  Shaw’s mind begins to unravel a million different things that could be going on at that bar, and none of them are good. She can’t help but envision the sharp, charming man sitting only a bar stool away from Root, who- as much as she hates to admit- looks just as stellar, if not more so. A picture starts to unfold before her eyes of low lights and tonics, and all of the bad things that those two can create.

Finally, curiosity grabbing her by the troubled mind, Shaw sits in Harold’s chair, kicking her feet up on the desk and placing the headset in a comfortable spot. Then, she absorbs the world through her ears alone.

“You know something?” MacArthur’s voice asks in a tone made silky with confidence and bourbon. “You are without a  _doubt_  the  _prettiest_  woman I’ve ever met.” _Oh brother,_ Shaw groans internally, already regretting putting the headpiece on- almost. Shaw can hear Root’s airy laugh, and can only imagine the sly half-smile that’s undoubtedly on her face.

“ _You_  know something?” Root counters in a slightly provocative voice. “I’m certain you’ve used that line on  _every_  woman you’ve been with.”  _You think?_ Shaw questions to herself with biting snark, lips beginning to curl into a scowl at the corner.

“You’re right,” MacArthur tells her, then takes a pause to drink. “But I know for a  _fact_  I’ve never meant it so much with anyone else.” Shaw rolls her eyes.  _Poor sap; he might be a good conman, but he’s a lousy date._  Still, to Shaw’s irritation, she can practically hear Root’s smile through the comm.

“Let’s get to business, shall we?” Root asks, enjoyment rolling about her voice. Shaw can hear MacArthur give a melodramatic groan in response.

“ _Business_?” He asks her skeptically. Then, his tone returns to its original smoothness as he adds, “I’d rather focus on pleasure.” Shaw smiles, shaking her head.  _If he thinks something that ridiculous could work on her, he’s-_

“That comes later,” Root responds, and Shaw’s eyes widen, grin all but forgotten. She freezes in place, trying to wrap her head around the answer.  _What?_

“If you’ll excuse me,” Charles says, the sound of a stool scraping against polished wood accompanying him, “I’ll be right back. Order another round of drinks?”

“You got it,” Root replies, and Shaw can almost swear Root has been pulled in in that moment. Suddenly, her ears grow hot, blood bubbling with anger.

“Ten bucks says he’s going to the bathroom to look up some more  _stupid_  pickup lines,” Shaw mutters into the headset, nestling back into Harold’s chair and crossing her arms.

“Hi, Sweetie,” Root purrs back, voice hushed but smug all the same. “You worried about me already?”

Shaw laughs cruelly, eyes narrowing. “Worried about  _him_. He’s supposed to be a  _ladies_ man? Please, _I_ could do better than that.”

“You saying you want to flirt with me, Shaw?” Root asks, amusement piquing- much to Shaw’s distaste. Pursing her lips, she rolls her tongue across her teeth.

“No.” What would pass for silence to anyone else is deafening for Shaw, whose ear drums feel as if they are bursting with the sound of Root’s triumphant smile. Annoyed now more than ever, Shaw’s muscles coil tightly in the chair. “Would you pull out that laptop already,” Shaw spits, an extra edge to her voice. “We have no eyes in there.”

“ _I_  don’t count?” Root asks, obviously enjoying herself, all the while Shaw can hear the rustling of the laptop’s bag.

“I’m not exactly sure where your eyes are  _at_ ,” Shaw responds tightly, stretching one hand out to the keyboard to pull up the live feed from the computer’s camera.

“If you wanted to keep an eye on me, all you had to do was ask,” Root tells her, just as the feed crackles to life. Shaw is greeted with a slightly pixellated video feed of Root, who looks directly into the lens, fixing her hair. She wears the precursor of a sly smile on her face, and Shaw wants nothing more than to reach through the computer screen and smack it off.

“What’s this?” MacArthur’s voice wanders in from out of shot, followed by his smiling face a moment later.

“You said your guy was having issues with the blueprints,” Root responds, typing briefly on the keyboard. “Here they are.” Charles’s eyes expand as he sits back down, never blinking as he devours whatever image is on screen.

“I could kiss you, you know,” he says to her, almost absent-mindedly, giving Root the smallest smile out the corner of his mouth.

“That was lame,” Shaw comments flatly as she sees Root smile at his comment. Upon hearing Shaw’s voice, Root bites her bottom lip, eyebrows raising the smallest bit before she settles back to a neutral expression.

“Is there another angle I can look at?” Charles asks, and Root nods. He looks at the keyboard a moment, fingers stretching out to a key, hovering, then returning to his side, eyes becoming sheepish. “Uh… how do you…” Root gives him an amused smirk before standing, coming behind him and draping her arms over his shoulders, fingers expertly finding their places on the right keys. Shaw watches, blood starting to heat up, as Root leaves her head right next to MacArthur’s, typing casually over his shoulders.

“He did that on purpose,” Shaw tells Root, voice harsh with what she’ll only admit is an emotion stemming from anger. While sifting back through his file of felonies, Shaw picks out the list of his dabbling in technology.  _‘How do you’ my ass._ She can see the flicker of Root’s amused grin break for a split second on the screen, just before she mouths  _‘jealous?’_

“This good?” Root asks, angling her face Charles’s way as he nods.

“ _Better_  than good,” he responds, then pauses. Whether he can feel Root’s gaze on his face or her breath on his neck, Shaw cannot tell. She only knows that- to her utter distaste- he turns his head as well, until they are nearly nose to nose.

Shaw groans loudly, suddenly ripping herself apart for ever suggesting Root set up the live feed. “Get a  _room_ ,” she says to Root, who tilts her head upon hearing Shaw’s words.

“If you insist…” She replies, slipping away from MacArthur and shutting the laptop. Once again in the dark, Shaw instantly wonders what’s going on. What Root’s doing. What  _MacArthur_  is doing.  _Be careful what you wish for._

“Insist what?” Charles asks Root, voice drowsily intoxicated with alcohol- Shaw hopes. There is a second’s pause at the sound of the laptop case opening then closing, and the scratching of chair legs against the floor.

“Pleasure,” Root responds, as if it’s the most obvious answer in the world. Shaw’s fingers curl around the edge of the desk, knuckles turning white. “You ready to get out of here?”

“Oh, for  _god_  sakes,” Shaw groans, shaking her head. “At least turn off the comm,  _would_  you?” Even though she says it, it’s the last thing she wants. On the contrary, Shaw decides that maybe, and just maybe, if she makes enough sarcastic comments, it will be a pest repellant for Root’s new roach of an acquaintance. She hears Root’s laugh, and has no idea what to make of it.

“Born ready,” Charles answers, voice wired. Shaw can hear the squeak of a door as it opens, and the crowded bar scene melts into a slightly breezy night street. Root’s heels click along the ground. Charles’s phone starts to dial.

“Then let’s go rob a bank.”

With that, the line goes dead, and Shaw shoves the headset from her ears. She could punch something, shoot something- shoot someone.  _I hope he’s the perpetrator,_ Shaw steams in her mind, eyes already seeing all the different ways to break him down.

Swiveling in Harold’s chair, Shaw makes it 180º before coming to an abrupt halt, eyes widening the smallest of fractions. She finds none other than Finch standing behind her, staring at her with large and curious eyes magnified by his glasses, still holding Bear by the leash. By the way his face isn’t flushed with the cold, and that the pink is all but nonexistent at the tip of his nose, she’s sure he’s been here a while- longer than she’d like.

“It appears that Mr. MacArthur has taken very kindly to Miss. Groves,” Harold comments casually, trying to make conversation from an awkward silence. It doesn’t work.

“She’s taken pretty nicely to  _him_  as well,” Shaw snarls, then kicks her feet off of Harold’s desk, grabbing her jacket.

“Where are you going?” He asks, watching but not stopping her as she heads for the exit.

“She’s gonna need a ride home,” Shaw responds, not looking back. Still, she can feel Harold’s quizzical gaze on the back of her neck.

“Mr. MacArthur  _has_  a car,” he points out, and she gives a sadistic chuckle.

“Not after  _I’m_  done with it.”

_____________\ We’ll Find You /____________

From about ten blocks to her left, Root can hear the faintest of shrill shrieks.

“My  _car_! My  _car_! What the  _Hell_  happened to my car?!”

She doesn’t stop, just walks briskly forward, nodding kindly to a police officer as he speeds past, lights painting the street in red and white. Waiting until she’s sure she’s out of eyesight, she pulls the wig from her head, shaking out her long hair with a relieved sigh. Running a hand through her curls, she shoves the blonde wig into the laptop bag. Another cop car whizzes past in a blur, not even acknowledging her presence. The wind picks up, and an icy chill rolls down Root’s spine, bare arms being eaten alive my the frigid air.

“Cold?”

Root turns, unsure where the voice came from. She brings a hand to her earwig, certain that it’s still off. However, as her eyes focus into the dark alleyway to her left, she finds a figure sauntering her way. Seeing her face, Root smiles, eyes glowing with affection.

“You just can’t stay away from me, can you?” She asks Shaw, taking the jacket Shaw holds out to her and throwing it over her arms. Warmth rushes through her body, and her muscles instantly relax. Shaw doesn’t answer, merely starts walking at her side.

“Your  _date_  sounded pretty fun,” Shaw comments slowly, and Root looks to her with peculiar interest. “I mean, not hood and zip ties in a CIA safe house with ten hours to kill  _fun_ , but.” Root grins wide, adoration spilling over the edge as she wanders down the street with Shaw.

“It was good,” Root admits with a sly hint to her voice, watching Shaw’s eyes narrow the slightest bit. “But, you know what they say,” she sighs, although her grin is wide, “all good things must come to an end.”

“That bad, huh?” Shaw asks, as if she hadn’t heard a word Root said. “It had to be for him to not even  _offer_  you a ride home.” Something in Shaw’s tone catches Root off guard for the second time that night, and she can’t help but wonder if MacArthur might still be in danger. She decides to ask about it later.

“He  _did_  offer,” Root tells her amiably, walking a little closer to Shaw. “I told him I really had to go. Cat at home; said she gets angry when I spend more time with other people than her.” Shaw snorts, and butterflies wrack Root’s stomach.

“Who?” Shaw asks, amused. “Your robotic, all seeing  _artificial intelligence_ cat?” Root smiles cleverly, eyes directed specifically on Shaw’s.

“No,” she replies, and Shaw’s smile falters. “Not  _that_  one.” Shaw’s lips purse, eyes flashing with annoyance, and Root can’t help the thrill that runs through her veins.

They approach Shaw’s car, and Root slips into the passenger seat just as her phone begins to ring. Digging it out as Shaw revs the engine, she sees Harold’s message.

HAROLD: New number. Security guard on Seventh who works the graveyard shift. Do you mind?

“You up for another mission?” Root asks, wagging the phone back and forth with a sly smile. Shaw peers at her a moment, mouth parted like she might just say no.

“How long?” Shaw responds with a defeated grumble, pulling away from the curb. Root shrugs her shoulders, shooting Harold a confirmation back before looking up, eyes connecting with Shaw’s through the rearview mirror.

“Could take all night,” Root warns, and her heart all but jumps from her chest as she watches Shaw’s mouth slowly turn up in a lopsided half-smile.


End file.
